Hands
by Surely Sherlocked
Summary: small oneshot about Erik's thoughts about life. first story too so be nice. Its rated T just in case. r&r please!


Hey, Jay speaking. Uhm, this is actually my first story ever to be put up soo, be nice please? This lil oneshot was just floating around in my head until i decided to write it out the other day. Its about how Erik views his life through other's hands. Based on ALW, Leroux, Kay, and my own imagination. Reviews and constructive criticism is appreciated and i apologize for any spelling or grammatical mistakes. no flamers please. =]

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom, although i would love to. This story belongs to Leroux and ALW.

**HANDS**

**It is strange how a normal child's first memories are usually of happy memories and smiling faces. But it is obvious that I am far from being normal. As an infant, my first memories were of hands. Yes, the large, rough hands of my father on my face, shoving me away. Hands that forced the cold, uncomfortable mask upon me, a helpless child still in swaddling clothes. The only body part that I have been able to feel as a child in my parents' home was hands. As I grew older, I began to learn about people through their hands. No, it is not the cheap kind of palm reading that you receive for 10 francs in a random gypsy sideshow. A person's hands show the kind of life they live, the kind of person they are; certainly not their future. My father's hands were rough and calloused, a perfect resemblance to his personality, a crude wife beater and child abuser. The skin covering his palms was uneven, just like the shifty lives we led. Father was a stone mason. Mother's hands were soft and dainty. Her beautiful hands reminded me of strawberries, beautiful to look at, yet cannot yield to any pressure placed upon them. She was much like a child, naïve and innocent. Her mind was never strong enough to bear the pressure of raising a monster. Maybe that is why her hands withered away as she worked hard for the family as my father fell into his drinking habits. It was Mother's hand that took mine as she led me to the fair; her hand that left me there. Mother was beautiful. I remember Master's hands well, they were cruel. Smooth oily paws that brought the whip down upon me. I remember the same slick attitude he used to lure the ignorant to my cage. I remember the gnarled fingers that forced me into submission, the same hands that molested me. His sanity was like his fingers, gnarled and warped, mixing right with wrong, hate and lust. Master was my owner. I can recall the rough hands that darted in and out of my cage. From the feel of the hardened skin, I could tell most were lowly peasants come to see a cheap sort of entertainment. Hands that were used to the hoe and shovel. They only wish to harvest their crop and get on with their lives. Peasants are shallow creatures. Next are Christine's hands. Oh, Christine was so much like mother, beautiful and soft. When she held onto something too hard, the object left a deep imprint in her palms. Christine was easily affected by her surroundings. She was like a delicate flower; the slightest wind could blow her down. Her mind was also weak. Christine could never carry something heavy for long. Her dainty hands would ache. Maybe that is why she had her boy. Christine was my first love. Raoul is a fine young man of good breeding. Oh how I wish I could be like Him! Wonderfully formed hands, long, slender, and strong. His personality was that of a gentle horse. He was kind and considerate, he was a solid rock for the weak, and he was a strong individual. Slightly calloused, his hands show that he was not just any pompous blueblood. He worked hard and did well. Raoul was the heart of my jealousy, black and revolting, slithering around my shriveled heart. Now, I look at my hands. They are a wreck; scarred by the shards of a mirror like how my face is so disgustingly ravaged. Long skeletal fingers flex themselves in the dim light. My desperate need for love reminded me of them. I was starving for affection, and that hunger was great. My skin is cold and pale, not much different from my empty soul. Calloused at the tips, my hands show the abandoned musician who was never allowed to reveal his treasures to the world. Yes, hands do expose the people we really are. Now as I look upon my repulsive history, I realize that I am like a rabid dog. A dog whose owner has beaten it, starved it, and left it in the cold. A dog that bites the hand that feeds. I do not blame the people for hating me, for it is inevitable. And I understand that just as a rabid dog needs to be put down, I need to be destroyed.**


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